


evergreen

by coveredinsun



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, i have no idea what this even like. Means, i just think this fic is sweet okay, it’s just absolute word vomit, this is just tommy introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinsun/pseuds/coveredinsun
Summary: It is peaceful right now in a backwards sort of way. A tranquil sorrow (?) runs through Tommy’s veins, one that is entirely unfamiliar to him. The air is chilly and his knuckles are red now, but he wants to stay outside because of how… unmoving it all is.His life has been very fast recently, but maybe time has been moving faster compared to how it was in exile. (He can’t really be sure.)But it is slow now. Snow begins to fall gently and Tommy decides he will stay in this moment for as long as it will allow him to. (Or until he freezes to death, but he chooses to ignore that thought.)
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	evergreen

**Author's Note:**

> originally inspired by “epiphany” by taylor swift (the whole thing reminds me so much of c!tommy its crazy) but it got way off the rails and then... boom. minecraft end poem quote at the end. that one’s for you gabby
> 
> this takes place just a few days after dream gets put in prison by the way!!!! 
> 
> this is my shortest fic and definitely not my greatest, but i like it, so enjoy this complete mindless drabble! :]

It takes Tommy a moment to realize he is not waking up to explosions.

It takes him a minute to calm his breaths down, to let the ringing in his ears play themselves out like the familiar tune of a scratchy record, to let it sink into his heart that he is _safe_ where he is _._

(He’s _supposed_ to be safe, at least. It doesn’t really feel like it. And his location is not the reason why.)

It was a good thing Tommy insisted on sleeping on his own when he agreed to stay the night in Snowchester. Tubbo probably wouldn’t want to deal with him when he was in a mood like this– not upset, no, just vaguely out of sorts. It’s hard to articulate. 

Tommy’s bones ache. They scream at him to _rest,_ and he knows he should heed their warning, but denying them that simple pleasure is something all too familiar to him now. One slow step at a time, he slips on his lended snowboots and lowers himself down the ladder to the first floor. The creak of the front door is grounding, in a strange way.

The chill of the night air immediately sends a shiver down his spine. He has never been particularly fond of snow– he’s _certainly_ not a big fan of the rosiness that settles on his cheeks, the stiffness that always inevitably overtakes his hands– but the soft sound each step brings, something like a crunch but _not quite_ , is something he revels in. 

Given the position of the moon, Tommy can tell he barely slept three hours. Great.

The small porch is covered in its year-round layer of snow. All around Snowchester, evergreen trees stand proudly as if they aren’t specially built to withstand these conditions. Tommy remembers the nickname Wilbur had given him long ago as a very small child, when Tommy randomly decided evergreen trees were fucking awesome, therefore Evergreen was the greatest name ever. The name didn’t stick for longer than a week, but it remains a fond memory.

 _(A fond memory of two people long gone,_ Tommy scolds himself for thinking.)

Tommy studies them, ponders which exact moment he stopped being as strong as them. He has crashed and burned before, emerged victorious time and time again from certain-death situations, so why is it different now? Why must _this_ be the thing _Tommy–_ known for being loud and proud and rambunctious– can’t find it in himself to speak to anyone about? 

(He knows people want to help, he _knows_ they can’t do that properly if he doesn’t speak about what happened. Yet the words die in his throat again and again, all the same.) 

He steps to the edge of the porch, very nearly leans on the railing, and moves to the next thought. 

In the distance he hears a twig snap. His head turns worryingly fast to identify who made the sound (only to spot a deer running off). Tommy mentally scolds himself for it. 

It is peaceful right now in a backwards sort of way. A tranquil sorrow (?) runs through Tommy’s veins, one that is entirely unfamiliar to him. The air is chilly and his knuckles are red now, but he wants to stay outside because of how… unmoving it all is.

His life has been very fast recently, but maybe time has been moving faster compared to how it was in exile. (He can’t really be sure.)

But it is slow now. Snow begins to fall gently and Tommy decides he will stay in this moment for as long as it will allow him to. (Or until he freezes to death, but he chooses to ignore that thought.) 

He’s grateful for how slow it is. It gives him time to think, to _breathe._ The breaths begin to come easier as he realizes that everything is over. His tormentor is gone, and with that comes a sense of happiness he cannot deny. 

(And yes, there _is_ still a very long way to go until the wound is healed. But there’s no longer someone salting that wound, and there is _time_ for it to heal.)

Time has not felt delightfully unhurried since… a few days ago. When Tommy sat with his best friend and popped in that silly little disc that meant so much to him.

For a moment time was turned back, back to when the two were teens at war (as if they still weren’t?) and made a pact to make it to eighteen. Only time will tell just how successful they will be, but their most recent victory was certainly a step in the right direction. 

And then Wilbur bent the reality of the fucking plane of existence or something to talk to Tommy. 

Wilbur could’ve said anything in the world, but he said he was _proud._

And for a minute Tommy wanted to be angry at him, wanted to cuss Wilbur out for congratulating him on fixing the mess _he started._ For a moment he wished Ghostbur was there, his presence was more bearable. But it would have done no good. Ghostbur wouldn’t be able to grasp why the victory was so important; it would be shallow. 

Tommy sighs. He’s been through way too much. That part is fucking obvious.

It’s nights like these, when Tommy’s bones ache, and he’s gotten barely three hours of sleep, and he begins to think about where he’d be if he could possibly muster up the strength to fucking _tell somebody–_

A night as serene as this one just begs to be ruined. And ruined it is, when the bad thoughts start to flash through Tommy’s head again: of hundreds of wither skulls; a madman’s words scribbled on the walls of the cell he’d put himself in. _Welcome home, Theseus. This is checkmate. I’ll be back._

(How selfish of Wilbur to say that when he knew damn well it was a lie.) 

Tommy hears a crunch of snow a few feet away. Habitually he turns his head, but there is no movement in that direction. 

There’s a book on the ground, at the bottom of the porch steps.

It could have been something Tubbo dropped earlier. If that’s the case, Tommy better go retrieve it before it gets ruined in the snowfall. 

Carefully he steps down the stairs. Upon feeling the cover of the book, it’s revealed that the book isn’t even wet; in fact, it’s completely new. That piques Tommy’s interest, so he opens the book. The first couple of pages are blank, but eventually there are words: 

_“You are not a pawn, and it is not checkmate— it never has been._ **_You are stronger than you know._ ** _”_

The harsh handwriting is all too familiar. It’s unmistakably the penmanship of someone Tommy used to know. Frantically he flips through the rest of the pages, desperately to know if there’s any more to this message. 

_“_ ** _Everything you need is within you._ ** _Never forget that, Evergreen.”_

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea whats going on here. all i know is that c!tommy deserves so much better 
> 
> p.s. i would’ve included michael and ranboo in this (bee n boo family my beloved!), but i wrote this mid-february before Everything, so. yeah!


End file.
